!  BERKELEY 
JBRARY 
JN4VE*S4TY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


• 


IRISH     WlJ.D-Fx.OWER 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 
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"  There  is  no  need  at  this  time  of  day  to  assert  her  claim 
to  recognition  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic — has  not  her  genius 
been  honoured  by  a  hundred  pens?  ...  It  is  just  this 
feminine  insight,  this  fortunate  tact  in  thought  and  phrase, 
that  gives  her  verses  their  unique  and  incommunicable 
charm." — London  Athenezum. 


WiLD-FLOWER 


ETC. 


BY 

SARAH    M.    B.    PIATT 


NEW  YORK  : 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES   COMPANY. 
MDCCCXCI. 


Copyright,  1891. 
BY  SARAH  M.   B.  PIATT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


PS 

X  1 

ft  I 


CONTENTS. 


VAGE 

AN   IRISH   WILD-FLOWER             .  .           7 

FROM   AN   ANCIENT    MOUND                .  8 

ECHO  AND   NARCISSUS  .  •           9 

WAYSIDE  COURTESY  II 

A   FUNERAL  ON   THE   LEE           .  .                                 .12 

A  WORD   WITH   A   SKYLARK  15 

HIS  ARGUMENT                 .                .  .         l6 

A  DANCE  OF  THE   DAISIES                   .  17 

CARRIGALINE  CASTLE  .                .  .                .                .20 

THE  BISHOP'S   THRUSH          .  .23 

A   NIGHT-SCENE  AT   CASHEL      .  •         25 

HIS  VIEWS  OF  THE  CUCKOO              .  .                                27 

IN   THE   ROUND  TOWER   AT  CLOYNE  .                .                .28 

RACHAEL  AT  THE   LODGE    ....  30 

A   REPROACH      ...  -32 

LAST  OF  HIS   LINE                   .                .  -33 
PRO   PATRIA        ......         36 


281 


AN    IRISH    WILD-FLOWER. 

(A   BAREFOOT  CHILD   BY  CASTLE.) 

SHE  felt,  I  think,  but  as  a  wild-flower  can, 

Through  her  bright  fluttering  rags,  the  dark, 
the  cold. 

Some  farthest  star,  remembering  what  man 
Forgets,  had  warmed  her  little  head  with' gold. 

Above  her,  hollow-eyed,  long  blind  to  tears, 
Leaf-cloaked,  a  skeleton  of  stone  arose.  .  .  . 

Oh,  castle-shadow  of  a  thousand  years, 

Where  you  have  fallen — is  this  the  thing  that 
grows  ? 


FROM   AN   ANCIENT  MOUND. 

ON  this  lone  mound  of  legend,  heaped  by  hands 
That  have  been  dust  from  immemorial  years, 

Above  their  mythic  chief,  whose  vassal  lands 
Forget  his  name, — so  long  forgot  by  tears, — 

I  dream.     Below  me  rath  and  ruin  are. 

England's  ally  there  shook  down  Philip's  fleet. 
Here   sings   a   young   bird   like   some   morning 

star.  .  .  . 

The  old  song's  sorrow  makes  the  new  song 
sweet. 


ECHO   AND   NARCISSUS. 

(IN   AN   OLD   SEASIDE  GARDEN.) 

No,  Echo,  upon  my  word 

There  isn't  any  mistake. 
We  heard  you — both  of  us  heard 

(I  think  we  were  wide  awake) — 

Kissing  somebody. 

Yes,  and  the  brooding  thrush, 

In  the  sunset,  heard  you  too 
(And  blushed,  if  a  bird  can  blush, 

As  away  in  the  wind  she  flew), 

Kissing  somebody. 

The  grey  old  sea,  from  the  wall, 
With  his  face  on  fire,  withdrew, 

(He  had  listened  a  minute)  and  all, 
O  Echo,  because  of  you — 

Kissing  somebody. 


10  ECHO   AND    NARCISSUS. 

And  the  gardener  heard  you  ("  So," 

He  said,  "it  is  growing  late," 
Then  lifted  his  hat  to  go, 

And  laughed  as  he  shut  the  gate) — 

Kissing  somebody. 

And  lo,  as  the  sweet  sound  ran 

From  your  lips,  O  airy  one ! 
The  moon  in  her  veil  began 

To  think  of  Endymion — 

Kissing  somebody. 

Now,  Echo,  who  could  it  be  ? — 

I  mean  the  fellow  you  kissed, 
When  we  two  heard  you — we — 

In  the  garden,  the  moon,  and  the  mist, 

Kissing  somebody. 

Narcissus — only — I  see. 

(Sweet  youth  come  back  in  a  flower  !) 
Narcissus — if  it  were  he, 

No  wonder  you've  been  for  an  hour 

Kissing  somebody. 


WAYSIDE   COURTESY. 

AN  earthen  floor,  a  thatch-roof,  low  and  dark  ; 

One  little  window  with  geraniums  red  ; 
An  empty  cage,  sad  for  the  winged  lark  ; 

A  stranger  guest  ;  a  sudden  fire,  and  bread. 

A  blue-eyed  peasant-girl  ;  an  open  door, 
And  the  old  sea  for  ever  within  call, 

To  whisper  fairily  of  the  Atlantic  shore 
Unto  my  servant's  sister.     That  was  all. 


A   FUNERAL   ON   THE   LEE. 

[The  body  of  Mr.  Jerome  J.  Collins,  of  the  Jeannette 
expedition  (with  that  of  his  mother,  who  died  during  his 
absence  in  the  North),  was  brought  from  the  United  States 
to  Cork,  and  buried  near  that  city  on  March  9,  1884,  with 
imposing  ceremonies.  The  funeral  procession  of  boats  along 
the  river  Lee  from  Queenstown  to  Cork,  under  the  flags  of 
England,  Ireland,  and  America,  was  an  impressive  sight. 
The  incident  of  the  sealed  letter  deposited  by  the  Mayor  of 
Cork  upon  the  coffin  of  Mr.  Collins  when  lowered  into  the 
grave— at  the  written  request  of  an  unknown  person,  who 
signed  himself  "A  Poor  Irish  Peasant,"  who  had  been 
befriended  by  the  dead  man — was  a  touching  one.] 

Two  voiceless  voyagers,  in  their  shrouds,  together, 

Met  after  years  of  death, 
Land  at  the  old  pier  in  the  weird  night-weather, 

And  in  the  rain-wet  breath 
Of  the  March  primrose.     By  the  torches,  lo  ! 
To  the  cathedral's  stony  gloom  they  go. 

Then   yearned   you   not,    O    mouth   by   famine 
smitten, 

O  mouth  by  frost  shut  fast, 
To  say  somewhat  that  never  shall  be  written  ? 

O  love,  the  first  and  last 


A    FUNERAL   ON   THE   LEE.  1$ 

That  men  shall  know,  then  yearned  you  not  to 

break 
Your  bands,  and  kiss  your  frozen  boy  awake  ? 

Soldier  and  sailor,  priest  and  child  and  mother, 

Close  to  the  coffin  pass  ; 
The  barefoot  tenant  crowds  his  landlord  brother. 

I  hear  the  Requiem  Mass  ; 
Shall  the  dead  hear   it  ?     Though  the   thrush 

should  sing 
Outside — the  dead  would  know  not  anything. 

O  eyes  come  home  again  so  still  and  hollow, 

There  be  fair  sights  to  see 
Under  the  green  flag  which  you  blindly  follow 

This  day  along  the  Lee, 
What  time  the  harp  thereon,  for  all  I  know, 
Wails  wind-wrung  trouble,  ghostly-far  and  low. 

Three  nations  walk  behind  in  funeral  fashion 

(O  world  of  moth  and  rust !) 
Lo,  Ireland  to  her  bosom  in  compassion 

Takes  back  her  gift  of  dust, 
And  England,  by  her  sister-island,  wears 
The  show  of  sorrow — which  mayhap  she  shares. 


14  A    FUNERAL    ON    THE   LEE. 

And  there,  too,  from  far  over  seas,  O  sweetest, 

O  best  beloved  of  all, 
O  Land  of   Promise — not   yet   broken  ! — thou 

meetest 

The  bearers  of  the  pall. 
Under  thy  saddened  stars  I  see  thee  wait 
Alone — where  some  must   love  and  some  must 
hate. 

Ashes  to  ashes  !     No,  not  yet.     A  debtor 

Long  at  the  Mayor's  door 
Waits  in  the  storm  and  holds  a  black-sealed  letter 

For  folded  hands.     What  more  ? 
u  From  a  poor  peasant,  one  to  whom  the  dead 
Was  a  fast  friend,"  the  superscription  read. 

What  gracious  record  of  past  pity  sleepeth 

Hid  therein  no  man  knows. 
Will  that  gray  graveyard,  when  the  Spring-sun 

keepeth 

Its  bright  tryst  with  the  rose, 
Bud  with  strange  flowers  and  sing  with  other 

birds 

Than   men   have   heard,  born  of  those   buried 
Words  ? 


A  WORD   WITH  A   SKYLARK. 

IF  this  be  all,  for  which  I've  listened  long, 

Oh,  spirit  of  the  dew  ! 
You  did  not  sing  to  Shelley  such  a  song 

As  Shelley  sung  to  you. 

Yet,  with  this  ruined  Old  World  for  a  nest, 
Worm-eaten  through  and  through, — 

This  waste  of  grave-dust  stamped  with  crown  and 

crest, — 
What  better  could  you  do  ? 

Ah  me  !  but  when  the  world  and  I  were  young, 

There  was  an  apple-tree, 
There  was  a  voice  came  in  the  dawn  and  sung 

The  buds  awake — ah  me  ! 

Oh,  Lark  of  Europe,  downward  fluttering  near, 

Like  some  spent  leaf  at  best, 
You  'd  never  sing  again  if  you  could  hear 

My  Blue-Bird  of  the  West ! 


HIS   ARGUMENT. 

11  BUT  if  a  fellow  in  the  castle  there 

Keeps  doing  nothing  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  then  has — everything  !     (That  isn't  fair, 
But  it's — what  has  to  be.    The  milk-boy  hears 

The  talk  they  have  about  it  everywhere). 

"Then  if  the  man  there  in  the  hut,  you  know, 
With  water  you  could  swim  in  on  the  floor, 

(And  it's  the  ground, — the  place  is  pretty,  though, 
With  gold  flowers  on  the  roof  and  half  a  door !) 

Works, — and  can  get  no  work  and  nothing  more : 

"  What  I  will  do  is— nothing  !     Don't  you  see  ? 

Then   I'll    have    everything,   my   whole    life 

through. 
But  if  I  work,  why  I  might  always  be 

Living  in  huts  with  gold  flowers  on  them,  too — 
And  half  a  door.     And  that  won't  do  for  me." 


A  DANCE   OF  THE   DAISIES. 

So,  my  pretty  flower-folk,  you 

Are  in  a  mighty  flutter  ; 
All  your  nurse,  the  wind,  can  do 

Is  to  scold  and  mutter. 

"  We  intend  to  have  a  ball 
(That's  why  we  are  fretting), 

And  our  neighbour-flowers  have  all 
Fallen  to  regretting. 

"  Many  a  butterfly  we  send 

Far  across  the  clover. 
(There'll  be  wings  enough  to  mend 

When  the  trouble's  over.) 

"  Many  a  butterfly  comes  home 
Torn  with  thorns  and  blighted, 

Just  to  say  they  cannot  come, — 
They  whom  we've  invited. 

2 


1 8  A   DANCE   OF   THE   DAISIES. 

"  Yes,  the  roses  and  the  rest 

Of  the  high-born  beauties 
Are  '  engaged,'  of  course,  and  pressed 

With  their  stately  duties. 

"  They're  at  garden-parties  seen  ; 

They're  at  court  presented  : 
They  look  prettier  than  the  Queen  ! 

(Strange  that's  not  resented.) 

"  Peasant-flowers  they  call  us — we 
Whose  high  lineage  you  know  : 

We,  the  ox-eyed  children  (see  !) 
Of  Olympian  Juno." 

(Here  the  daisies  all  made  eyes  ! 

And  they  looked  most  splendid, 
As  they  thought  about  the  skies, 

Whence  they  were  descended.) 

"  In  our  saintly  island  (hush  !) 

Never  crawls  a  viper, — 
Ho,  there,  Brown-coat !  that's  the  thrush 
He  will  be  the  piper. 


A   DANCE   OF   THE   DAISIES.  19 

"  In  this  Irish  island,  oh, 

We  will  stand  together. 
Let  the  loyal  roses  go  ; — 

We  don't  care  a  feather. 


"  Strike  up,  thrush,  and  play  as  though 

All  the  stars  were  dancing. 
So  they  are  !     And — here  we  go — 

Isn't  this  entrancing  ?  " 

Swaying,  mist-white,  to  and  fro, 

Airily  they  chatter, 
For  a  daisy-dance,  you  know, 

Is  a  pleasant  matter. 


CARRIGALINE   CASTLE. 

(THE  CARMAN'S  COMMENTS  AT  HIS  OWN  GATE  ON  SUN 
DAY  EVENING.) 

"  You  must  be  frightened  by  the  noise 
There  at  the  chapel.     Faith,  it's  only 

A  merrymaking.     Sure,  the  boys 

Have  been  paid  off.     The  place  is  lonely, 

Except  on  Sunday,  when  the  weather 

Is  fine — then  they've  a  row  together  ! 

"  You  see  that  rye  there  ?     It's  the  same 

That  makes  the  boys  back  there  so  pleasant ; 

Your  pardon,  ma'am.     It  is  a  shame 
To  speak  of  it  when  you  are  present. 

But,  sure,  his  honour  should  be  knowing 

That  rye  there  is — our  whisky,  growing. 

"  And  when  they've  finished  up  the  hay 
The  boys,  be  sure,  must  all  be  drinking  ; 

It's  what  the  Irish  will,  I  say. 

No  doubt  his  honour  has  been  thinking 


CARRIGALINE   CASTLE.  21 

All  this  is  wrong.     A  drop  too  many 

But  then  our  rye's  as  good  as  any  ! 

[Lifting   his  hat  to    the  priest  who    drives   by 
homeward.'] 

"  The  priest,  God  bless  him  !  "     With  a  smile, 

A  face  as  red  as  any  rose's 
He  raised,  and  pointed  slow,  the  while, 

To  where  a  shattered  wall  encloses 
A  shattered  stronghold,  vague  with  distance, 
Where  Time  has  met  a  stout  resistance. 

"  You  see  there,"  said  he,  growing  grave, 
"  There,  do  you,  where  that  crow  is  flying  ? 

One  of  our  kings  lived  there — as  brave 
As  any.     It  would  be  worth  trying 

To  find  the  likes  of  him.     His  name  was 

McCarthy  !  "     (Ay,  and  here  his  fame  was  !) 

"These  Desmonds  were  a  glorious  race." 
(Of  rebels  ?)     Here  he  looked  defiant 

(Toward  England  ?)     Then,  with  kindly  grace, 
Said  to  the  child,  "  He  was  a  giant." 

(Ah  !  Master  Gold-Head,  you'll  enchant  it — 

But  darker  things  than  fairies  haunt  it.) 


22  CARRIGALINE    CASTLE. 

"  Think,  will  you,  of  an  arm  that  reaches 
Down  so  that,  when  one's  standing  straight, 

The  hand  can  button  the  knee  breeches  ; — 
That's  what  they  tell  of  him.     But  wait, — 

The  buttons  on  them  were  of  gold,  ma'am  ; 

At  least,  that's  what  I  have  been  told,  ma'am  !  "" 

Grim  on  the  hill  the  ruin  lay, — 

By  the  still  sea  it  dreamed  and  crumbled. 

"Oliver  Cromwell  came  this  way, 

(In  Charles's  time,  it  was)  and  tumbled 

The  castle  down  !  "  he  added,  after 

A  little  very  cordial  laughter. 

"  Oliver  Cromwell  knew  how,  well, 

To  tumble  old  things  down."    "  He  did,  ma'arn^ 
He  did,"  he  said,  as  if  to  tell 

This  strong  truth  pleased  him.    "  But  I'm  bid, 

ma'am, 

In  to  my  tea. — And  that's  it  lying 
Away  there  where  the  crow  is  flying  !  " 


THE  BISHOP'S  THRUSH. 

HE  folds  within  his  hollow  hand 

A  dream  that  all  outshines 
His  mitre.     It  is  morning,  and 

A  voice  is  in  his  vines. 

He  listens  in  his  lonesome  sleep. 

(He  is  too  old  for  tears  ?) 
Oh,  song,  oh,  song  !  that  makest  him  weep 

Away  his  priestly  years  ! 

Ah,  he  would  fold  his  honours  up, 

He  would  lay  down,  in  sooth, 
Thy  cross,  oh,  Christ !  to  drink  the  cup, 

The  broken  cup  of  youth. 

The  boy  who  knows  not  pity's  laws, 
Looks  up  and  whispers,  "  Hush  ! 

I  will  not  throw  the  stone,  because 
It  is  the  Bishop's  Thrush." 


24  THE    BISHOP'S   THRUSH. 

His  mother  turns  away  her  head, 

And  to  herself  a  word 
Or  two  she  mutters,  as  in  dread  : 

"  The  bird— is  not  a  bird  !  " 

.  .  .  Ah,  when  the  Requiem  Mass  is  heard, 

For  yon  gray  prelate's  sake, 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  bird 

One  human  cry  will  break. 

The  peasant-folk  will  see  it  flit 

Across  his  coffin  then  ; 
The  Bishop's  Thrush  (ah,  doubt  not  it  !) 

Will  never  sing  again. 


A  NIGHT-SCENE  AT  CASHEL. 

AND  this  was,  then,  their  Cashel  of  the  Kings, 
As  babbling  legends  fondly  call  it.     Oh, 

The  Cashel  now  of — certain  other  things  ! 

Come  look  by  this  blurred  moon,  if  you  would 
know. 

From  darkness,  such  as  hides  the  happier  dead, 
On    the   damp    earth-floor    grows   a   ghastly 

flame. 

A  woman's  wasted  arm,  a  child's  gold  head, 
Shrink   back  into   the  wind-stirred   straw  for 
shame. 

Through  the  half-door,  down  from  the  awful 
Rock, 

The  death-chill  from  some  open  grave  creeps  in. 
The  skeleton's  fixed  laugh  is  seen  to  mock 

The  cry  for  bread  below.     Oh,  shame  and  sin  ! 


26  A    NIGHT-SCENE   AT    CASHEL. 

Warm  only  with  the  fire  of  its  starved  eyes, 
In  one  grim  corner  crouches  a  black  cat. 

.  .  .  Night  moans  itself  away.     The  sun  must 

rise, 
As  it  has  risen,  spite  of  this  or  that. 

And  see  !  In  meadows  beautiful,  knee-deep 
In  bloom,  for  many  a  shining  mile  around, 

The  undying  grass  is  white  with  lambs  and  sheep,, 
And  wandering  cattle  make  a  pleasant  sound. 


HIS  VIEWS  OF  THE  CUCKOO. 

THE  little  exile,  whose  sweet  head 

Wore  yet  the  Atlantic  sun, 
Threw  down  his  hoop  :  "That's  it,"  he  said, 

"  And  it  is  only  one  ! 

"  It  can't  behave  like  other  birds 

At  home  across  the  sea  ; 
It  tries  to  make  "  (I  write  his  words) 

"  You  think  it's  more  than  three. 

"  That  cuckoo's  not  a  cuckoo,  though," 

I  heard  him  murmuring  ; 
"  It  isn't — anywhere,  you  know  ; 

It  isn't — anything  ! 

"  But,  somehow,  it  is — everywhere 

At  once  !  And  I  suppose 
It  cadt  build  nests,  for  it's — the  air  ! 

I  know  a  boy  that  knows  !  " 


IN  THE  ROUND  TOWER  AT  CLOYNE. 

[C.    L.    P.,   OB.  JULY    l8,    1884.] 

THEY  shivered  lest  the  child  should  fall  ; 

He  did  not  heed  a  whit. 
They  knew  it  were  as  well  to  call 

To  those  who  builded  it. 

41  I  want  to  climb  it  any  way, 

And  find  out  what  is  there  ! 
There  may  be  things — you  know  there  may — 

Lost,  in  the  dark  somewhere." 

He  made  a  ladder  of  their  fears 

For  his  light,  eager  feet  ; 
It  never,  in  its  thousand  years, 

Held  anything  so  sweet. 

The  blue  eyes  peeped  through  dust  and  doubt, 

The  small  hands  shook  the  Past  ; 
41  He'll  find  the  Round  Tower's  secret  out," 

They,  laughing,  said  at  last. 


IN  THE  ROUND  TOWER  AT  CLOYNE.     29 

The  enchanted  ivy,  that  had  grown, 

As  usual,  in  a  night 
Out  of  a  legend,  round  the  stone, 

He  parted  left  and  right. 

And  what  the  little  climber  heard 

And  saw  there,  say  who  will, 
Where  Time  sits  brooding  like  a  bird 

In  that  gray  nest  and  still. 

.  .  .  About  the  Round  Tower  tears  may  fall  ,- 

He  does  not  heed  a  whit. 
They  know  it  were  as  well  to  call 

To  those  who  builded  it. 


RACHAEL  AT  THE  LODGE. 

I  KNOW.     It  is  the  world-old  wail, 
And  through  the  window  I  can  see 

The  waxen  candles,  that  make  pale 
The  rose  outside.     Ah  me,  ah  me  ! — 

That  light  like  this  should  ever  fall 

On  lovers  by  yon  grey  sea-wall ! 

There  lies  Spike  Island  x  in  the  stars. 

Ah,  many  a  mother's  boy  is  there, 
Loved  once  like  hers,  behind  the  bars  : 

Who  knows  but  he she  does  not  care 

Her  dead  child  was  a  girl,  they  say, 
The  peasant  folk  who  walk  this  way. 

A  girl  !  And,  therefore,  born  to  be 
At  most,  my  lady's  maid,  and  wait, 

Meanwhile,  here  barefoot  by  the  sea. 
Oh,  sobbing  keeper  of  the  gate, 

Is  it  sweet  to  serve  and  to  be  still, 

In  the  high  house  there  on  the  hill  ? 
1  Since  disused  as  a  prison  for  convicts. 


RACHAEL  AT   THE   LODGE.  31 

Or  were  it  sweet  to  sail — and  sleep 

Full  fathom  five  below  the  cries 
Of  the  wet  gulls,  perhaps,  or  keep 

Awake  all  night,  with  tearless  eyes 
Down  in  the  steerage,  but  to  see 
How  lone  a  stranger's  land  may  be  ? 

Can  thoughts  like  these  not  make  it  sweet 
To  miss  her  brown  head  from  the  sun, 

Her  singing  from  the  birds',  her  feet 
From  following "  Oh,  my  little  one, 

My  darling,  oh  my  darling  !  "  she, 

The  unreasoning  woman,  moans  to  me. 

The  Wise-men's  star,  out  of  the  East 

Is  shining  on  her  baby's  bed. 
(Comfort  her,  crucifix  and  priest  !) 

Madonna-face  and  thorn-stabbed  head 
Watch  from  her  wall.     And  yonder  lie 
The  Heavens.     And still  that  cry,  that  cry  ! 

QUEENSTOWN,    1884. 


A  REPROACH. 

(ADDRESSED   TO   IRELAND.) 

BEAUTIFUL,  cruel  Mother,  you  who  sit 

Singing  with  voice  of  linnet,  lark,  and  thrush, 

Among  the  sorrows  born  of  you  !  Is  it 

Nothing  to  you,  your  children's  crying  ?  Hush. 

Can  rose-leaves  cure  the  heart-ache,  think  you, 

Sweet  ? 
Are  starving  mouths  with  dews  and  perfumes 

fed, 

That  thus,  with  your  wild  brood  about  your  feet, 
You  give  them  blossoms  when  they  wail  for 
bread  ? 


LAST  OF  HIS  LINE. 

(A  YOUNG   DONKEY   LOOKING  THROUGH   THE   RUINED 
WINDOW   OF   HIS   FAMILY   CASTLE.) 

So,  there  the  last  lord  of  the  Castle  stands 

Beside  his  fireless  hearth, 
In  the  wild  grass  of  his  ancestral  lands, — 

The  saddest  thing  on  earth. 

Framed  by  his  mullioned  window,  with  a  guard 

Of  birds  to  circle  him, 
He  looks  into  his  desolate  courtyard, 

Where  yet  the  dew  is  dim. 

The  immemorial  tower-rose,  half  awake, 

Peeps  out — he  looks  so  queer  ; 
And  old-world  butterflies  begin  to  take 

The  wings  of  morning  near. 

3 


34  LAST   OF    HIS   LINE. 

His  Norman  blood  shows  in  his  long,  fair  ears, 

His  voice,  if  he  should say, 

Is  it  not  like  the  trumpet-cry  one  hears 

From  war-fields  far  away  ? 

In  his  grey  garments,  with  the  ivy  blown 

About  his  serious  face, 
He  muses,  in  the  sunrise  bloom  alone, 

On  his  romantic  race. 

(One  of  them,  somewhere  in  a  golden  mist 

Of  Shakespeare's  moonlight  rare, 
By  Queen  Titania  herself  was  kissed, — 

Oh,  but  she  thought  him  fair  !) 

His  race  ?  Great  captains,  poets,  priests,  and  kings 

Were  of  his  race,  'tis  said. 

The  Conqueror  himself But   what  odd 

things 

Will  drift  into  one's  head  ! 

Look  at  him  there  among  his  fallen  towers, 

His  family  tombs.    Ah  me, 

The  sweet  young  heir  of  Ruin,  crowned  with 
flowers, 

How  beautiful  is  he  ! 


LAST   OF    HIS    LINE.  35 

.  .  .  Take  heart,  my  little  brother !  Who  shall 
say 

What  Time,  the  Good,  will  bring  ? 
You  may  be  king  of  England  yet  some  day  j 

And  then — God  save  the  King  ! 


PRO  PATRIA. 

(FROM  EXILE.) 

To  stand  on  some  grey  coast,  uncertain,  lonely, 
As  some  new  ghost  wrecked  on   some   other 

world, 

This  is  to  love  my  country — the  One  only  ! 
To  watch  the  boats  of  strange-voiced  fishers, 

whirled 
Toward  islands  with  strange  names,  and  then  to 

see — 
Nothing  that  ever  was  before,  ah  me  ! 

To  watch  weird  women  in  great  cloaks,  for  ever 
Crying  strange  fruits,  who  will  not  let  you  be  ; 

Or  shadows  in  black  bridal  veils,  who  never 
On  earth  may  hope  their  plighted  Lord  to  see  ; 

Or  feel  some  sandal-footed,  vision-eyed, 

Sad-hooded  monk  into  your  wonder  glide. 


PRO    PATRIA.  37 

More  sad,  to  wake  in  some  void  morning,  smitten 
With    the   sharp   shadow-work   of  dark   and 

dream, 

Sick  with  a  sorrow  that  was  never  written — 
No,  not  with  heart's  blood — and  to  hear  the 

scream 

Of  the  wan  gulls  along  the  hollow  foam 
Of  alien  seas — while  blue-birds  brood  at  home. 

To  think,  if  it  be  in  the  dew-dim  languor 
Of  the  new  year,  of  peach  and  apple-blooms 

By  the  Ohio — and  to  start  in  anger, 

Almost,  at  glimmerings  in  the  faery  glooms 

Where  the  primroses  hide  and  the  young  thrush 

Makes  songs  about  some  old-world  daisy's  blush. 

Or,  if  it  be  when  gorgeous  leaves  are  flying, 
Through  all  the  mighty  woods,  where  I  was 

born. 
To  sit  in  immemorial  ruin  sighing 

To  braid  the  gold  hair  of  the  Indian  corn, 
With    my    slave-playmates    singing,   here    and 

there, 
Ere  they  were  sold  to  their  new  master,  Care  ! 


3  PRO    P ATRIA. 

Yes,  if  it  be  the  time  when  things  should  wither 
In  our  old  places — (oh,  my  heart,  my  heart ! 

Whence  comes   the   evil  wind   that  blows  you 

whither 
It  listeth  ?) — walking  in  a  dream,  to  start 

At  this  immortal  greenness,  mocking  me 

Alike  from  tower  and  tomb,  from  grass  and  tree  : 

This  is  to  love  my  country  !     Oh,  the  burning 

Of  her  quick  blood  at  the  poor  jest,  the  sneer, 
The  insolent  calm  question  still,  concerning 
Her  dress,  her  manners  !     "  Are  you,  then,  so 

queer 
At   home  —  we    mean   no   harm  —  as  we   have 

heard  ?  » 
This  is  to  love  my  country,  on  my  word  ! 

Ah,  so  across  the  gulf  they  hiss  and  mutter  : 
"  Her  sins  they  are  as  scarlet  ?  "      Had  they 

been, 
Whiter  than  wool  they're  washed  !  What  of  the 

utter 

Love  of  her  million  sons  who  died  for  sin 
Not  hers  but  theirs — who,  from  their  common 

grave, 
Would  rise  and  die  again  were  she  to  save  I 


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U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


